by Anne Heltzel
Because I know she can’t trust me.
5
Aubrey
“List of . . . sofas you’ve spilled wine on. Go.”
I sigh, twirling a bit of loose fringe between my thumb and forefinger. I’m lying on a beach towel that’s covering my shady hostel mattress, sketching characters on my little pad of paper as we talk. Mercifully, my notebook doesn’t seem to interest Lena—she hasn’t asked to see it, even though she’s pried into every other aspect of my life.
We sprang for a single-sex quad, which amounts to two sets of bunk beds in a closet-size room with a single light bulb and a narrow shower stall in a corner. Luckily it’s just us in the room. We each chose a top bunk on opposite sides of the room. There’s a shared toilet in the hallway. The light bulb flickers a little and its chain sways in the breeze that comes through the open window—we’re trying to air out the putrid, musty smell that’s probably coming from the mattresses. I don’t want to speculate on its cause.
By now I know that Lena’s lists are mostly for her benefit—so she can tell stories about herself—but I try to play along. I don’t know why we’re not staying with one of the supposed million friends she has here in London, where she was headed anyway, where she has family and all that. When I agreed to come out here, I’d assumed she’d thought it through. I assumed she had someplace for me to stay. Now I see that was pure stupidity on my part.
“I’ve never spilled wine on any sofas,” I tell her. I pull the edges of my beach towel around me, but it’s futile. I’ll never be warm. “First of all, I’m technically not supposed to be drinking when I’m in the U.S. It’s not like I sit around sipping wine with my friends all day. I mean, I’m eighteen. Secondly, when I do manage to procure booze, it’s usually guys who get it, and it’s usually beer.” Lena already knows I’ve done much less, seen much less, than she has. She wishes I’ve felt much less; at least when it comes to Charlie. I know she wants to believe that she and Charlie were more special than we were; and they probably were. But she doesn’t know that.
“Procure,” she mocks. I try not to blush. “You’re so cute, Aubrey,” she says in a condescending tone. Maybe it’s because she looks elfin and wide-eyed that she can get away with so much. Or maybe it’s that people like me don’t hold her accountable.
“How about you?”
“There was my best friend’s sofa, twice,” she says, propping herself up on one elbow. “Nothing a Tide pen can’t correct. Then my parents’ sofa, which was kind of a problem because it was crazy expensive. You should have seen the way my mom’s eyes bugged out when she saw it . . . and then I poured a bunch of baking soda over it because I thought I had read somewhere that it would absorb the stain, but it actually made it worse. Then there was the leather sofa in the rental apartment I—”
“Lena.” I break in while I can still control my tone. “Can we talk about something that matters? Like why we’re here?” I was hoping to keep my voice neutral, but she bristles.
“I was just trying to lighten the mood. If we’re going to be friends, we can’t just dwell on the reason we’re here all the time. Talk about depressing.”
“I don’t want to be your friend,” I tell her. “I’m not here for that.”
“Well,” she continues, in a falsely cheerful tone. “Thanks for being clear.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s not that I wouldn’t want to be your friend otherwise. You’re great. I—I can see why Charlie cared about you. I only meant that I want to figure out what was going on with Charlie,” I say. “What he wanted to tell me that day. And I want to find my journal.”
“Okay. Thanks for the compliments, I guess, but seriously, spare me. He clearly wanted to tell you about me, that day you had that conversation. It must have been the big secret. Maybe he tried to tell you and got scared, so this was the big way of doing it. Disappear. Vamoose. Gone in a puff. Laugh from afar when ex-girlfriends collide. Sounds about right for Charlie.”
“That sounds nothing like Charlie,” I tell her, my voice uncharacteristically hard. “You’ve got to stop saying stuff like this. He didn’t have the guts to stage something so elaborate.”
“Holy hell, Aubrey,” Lena says, lying back on her cot. “I think you have some anger management issues. You seem all nice, and then you say the craziest stuff.”
I press my lips together and turn over on my side. It’s only night one. If I’m going to make this work with Lena for even another day, I’ve got to fake things a little. It’ll be no good if she’s already sensing the truth.
“Anyway,” Lena goes on, her voice softer now—almost like she’s afraid of what she’s about to say. “Charlie used to talk to me about disappearing all the time. He used to fantasize about it.”
“What are you talking about?” My words are clipped, my jaw tense.
“He never said anything to you?” I shake my head, even though Lena can’t see it.
“He talked a lot about how he’d disappear if he could. Start over, leave everything behind. And I’d always be like, ‘You do that anyway. You move around, you get to make new friends and try new schools. It’s always a new beginning for you.’ Because it was; that was kind of his thing. The exhilaration he’d feel every time he moved or went somewhere new. I used to think it was sexy. I used to think he liked adventure. But later I got it. He just liked running away.”
“You really think he could be alive,” I say. It’s not a question; I can tell what she thinks from the conviction in her tone.
“I do. I think he did this shitty thing to us and told us in his own way, and disappeared. How did you find out he was missing, Aubrey?”
“There was a news blast. An email with headlines. ‘Oxford University student missing since Sunday,’ or something like that. Then I Googled around.”
“Ever think he wanted you to know? Did you get that news blast regularly? Charlie was a freaking genius with computers. He could have pushed it into your inbox.”
I pause, thinking. Yeah, I had signed up for Oxford’s student paper, the Cherwell, but only after Charlie had encouraged me to. To expand your cultural horizons and learn more about Oxford, he’d said. I’d liked it because it made me feel closer to his world. “It’s possible,” I admit. “But not likely. He’s dead, Lena. They found his jacket.”
“Yeah,” she says. “And that’s the only thing they found. But I’m just saying . . . maybe he brought us together for a reason.”
“Are you here looking for answers or looking for him?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she says, her words cold. “Him, I guess. If I’m completely honest. And when I find him, I’m going to tear him apart. You and me both, Aubrey. I’m not letting him get away with this. I’m not going to be some joke to him, wherever he is.” I’m surprised by the heat now in her voice.
“He’s dead,” I try again. He’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead. I repeat it until I realize how desperately I want it to be true. I need it to be true.
“But maybe not.”
“He has to be!” I shout it this time. There’s a silence so long and deep that I think it’ll never end. I’ve done it. I’ve given myself away.
“I’m angry too,” she says finally. “Just a different kind of angry.”
Only then can I breathe a sigh of relief. She doesn’t know my secret. How could she? But soon maybe she’ll figure it out, if I’m not careful.
“New list,” she says into the silence, her voice falsely bright. “Ten things you hated about Charlie.” When I don’t answer right away, she says, “Go.” I rack my brain, thinking of things that are safe to say.
“I hated how he always walked on the outside of the sidewalk,” I start. “And took the side of the bed closest to the door. I hated how he always tried to be chivalrous.”
Lena is silent for a minute. “Go on.”
“I hated how he brushed his teeth.”
Lena laughs a little, lightening the atmosphere. “I know what you mean. That weird gargli
ng noise.”
“I hated that he always said he wanted a soda, and bought himself a soda and took two sips and threw it away, instead of just drinking a couple sips of my soda. I always offered. I hated that he looked at me weird when I laughed too loudly. I hate that he knew how to hack, and thought it was hilarious to spam my email account with fake messages from unfunny names like ‘Hank E. Panky.’ I hated that he didn’t see street art on the sidewalks even when it was right in front of his face. I hated that every fight we had, he wanted to hold me immediately after to make it all better. I hated that at restaurants, if there was even a tiny speck of an olive, he’d make them take the whole plate back.” I’m building steam. I’m on a roll. I have this heady euphoric feeling, the same feeling I get when I hit mile six when I’m running. Like I can keep on going and going, an object in motion staying in motion.
“Wait.” Lena cuts me off. “What are you talking about? He loves olives.”
“Charlie hates olives more than anything,” I correct her. He wouldn’t even let me keep them in his mini fridge. And I love them. I eat them with egg salad, PB&J, you name it.
“No, no, no,” Lena says, sitting bolt upright in bed. “You’re wrong. You’re thinking of someone else. He adores them. He literally used to bring them into bed and eat them in front of me. It was gross. He wouldn’t brush his teeth afterward and his breath reeked. That was the one time I wouldn’t have minded the gargling.”
“You’re sure they were olives? And not, like, figs?” I’m trying to ignore the icky feeling bring them into bed thrusts at me. My parents are so strict that Charlie and I only got overnight time during the nights I stole with him here and there in random cities in between lies I told.
“Jesus. I know the difference between an olive and a fig.”
I look, expecting to find her face twisted in scorn, but instead she looks worried. Her blond brows are wrinkled up so tight that they’re joined in the middle. She kind of looks . . . I squint.
“Are you about to cry?” I ask.
“No!” she says in the unmistakable tone of a person about to cry. “You’re just wrong. Your whole list was wrong. And I don’t want to sit here and listen to it. It’s like you’re trying to manipulate me. Are you trying to mess with me? Why would you want me to think I don’t know my own boyfriend? I was with him for three years.” Now she’s definitely crying. “God, I don’t want him to be dead,” she says quietly when her tears begin to subside. “It’s too hard.”
“Lena,” I start. Her feelings for him—her desperation for him to be alive—make her look like a drowning girl. I’m not here on this trip to find Charlie, like she is. I’m here to find what he stole from me.
“Forget it,” she says, sniffling. “Let’s go to sleep.” The way she says it, there’s no choice. So I lean over and pull on the grimy string attached to the single light bulb that hangs from the cracked, splotchy ceiling. I lie awake for an hour. I keep thinking about the olives thing. I had been serious about it. That really was one of the things I hated most. It was embarrassing, and weird, and psychological. The Charlie I knew—this is the important thing to clarify—the one I knew hated olives. He couldn’t stand the sight of them. He was forever digging them out of things and putting them on the side of my plate. Lena’s Charlie, from the sound of it, loved olives. She had no reason to lie about that and I don’t think she’s a good enough actress for her tears to have been a show. So who was the real Charlie?
Until right now, I didn’t realize that maybe Charlie gave us each a different version of himself. What does it mean? Was Lena’s Charlie the real one, because it’s easier to deny oneself pleasures than to force displeasure? Or if Charlie tailored himself to what he thought we’d each want, why had he always scoffed at my preference for graphic novels over classic literature and my interest in maybe one day attending school for illustration? What was he hoping to achieve? That was the last thought I remember having before I drifted off, pulling the towel edges around me as far as they’d reach.
My watch reads one o’clock when Lena shakes me awake; and for a second, I’m confused, because it’s still dark as night out. Then I realize: it is night. There’s movement from behind Lena, and a guy in a black hoodie moves toward me, his head barely clearing the top bunk, so I see only eyes and a tuft of brown hair peeking from beneath the hood. I scream. Lena clamps her hand over my mouth.
“Get up,” she whispers. “We’re going out.”
“Out where?” I don’t want to go out. I don’t trust this person; I can only see his eyes, but usually all you need are the eyes in order to trust. I can’t read them, no matter how hard I try.
“Xander knows this club,” she says. “It’s getting started right now.”
“Seriously? Now? It’s one a.m.!” I’m saying this but I’m thinking, So this is Xander. Charlie mentioned him, said he was one of his good friends from the London days, back when he was a sophomore and junior in high school. I’m wondering if he’s as good a guy as Adam—if he can be trusted like I instinctively knew Adam could, when I first met him. And I’m also thinking, How did Lena know how to find him? She’s full of secrets, I’m just beginning to learn, and it doesn’t sit well with me. I didn’t even know Lena knew about Xander before now, though I should have guessed it. Of course she did—London was where she first met Charlie. She knows all about his life here.
“Is she coming or what?” Xander says to Lena.
“Relax,” she tells him. Then to me: “Aub, Charlie partied at Fabric all the time. Xander’s a lead; but so are all the others who hang out there. There are tons of people there who knew him.” She’s right. It’s a lead, and obviously the kind we’d need to explore in the middle of the night.
“You should have prepped me,” I tell her as I climb down from the bunk. By the time my feet hit the cold tile floor, I can see she’s already dressed, almost like she first planned on going without me—and I wouldn’t put it past her. I’m going to have to be a lot more wary of this girl. She’s wearing a black miniskirt so short it barely covers her butt, with a loose, plain white tank top that has armholes so wide you can see half her rib cage—and her Day-Glo pink bra underneath.
“Z,” she says, tugging Xander’s hoodie. “Go get the bike. We’ll meet you out front in five.”
“Z?” I ask, as I pull on my jeans. “Isn’t Xander spelled with an x?”
“Duh,” says Lena. “It’s phonetic. Are you always such a nerd? Oh. You can’t wear that.” She’s looking at my outfit like I’m wearing something straight out of Little House on the Prairie. “I knew I’d have to be the prepared one,” she says with a sigh, and I can’t help smiling as she rummages through her brown canvas duffel. “Here.” She whisks her arm through the air, and a slinky gold thing traces a path from her hand to my lap.
“So I’ll wear it with my jeans.”
“It’s a dress. Just don’t wear a thong.” She winks and hands me a pair of high, strappy shoes. “What shoe size are you?”
“Eight.” I’m still eyeing the dress warily. “I literally won’t be able to lift my arms,” I say.
“Eight’s perfect! Me too. Maybe Charlie has a thing for average-sized feet.” Her joke hurls me back into the present, into the dreary little hostel and into the reason we’re even here. Sometimes when I’m not paying attention, I find myself liking Lena a little. I think about what Charlie must have loved about her, and wonder if I could care about her too. But when I catch myself thinking that way, it feels like I’m betraying myself.
“Are you sure we’re going to find something at Fabric?” I ask her.
“No,” she says. “But it’s the first place I thought to look. And Xander can get us in. He’s always had a thing for me.”
“That’s funny,” I say. “Because I knew about Xander. But I thought he was this totally geeked-out gamer. I didn’t realize he was such a clubgoer.”
“Holy shit,” Lena says. “Did Charlie tell you he was a gamer? No. No way. Charlie probably nev
er played a video game in his life, and Xander’s his club buddy, weed hookup, you know. That guy.” My heart’s pounding and I’m about to protest that actually, Charlie wasn’t the clubber type. He was super into philosophy, and claimed to have a soft spot for video games, both of which made him kind of a nerd. He told me he’d smoked weed once and hated it because it made him paranoid. But she’s already pulling me out the door. I do my best to tug the gold slinky thing farther down my thighs—then give up when I realize it’s just not possible.
I think of Charlie’s eyes as we walk to the corner where Xander’s waiting. “Thanks for giving us a ride,” I remember to tell him, and he nods back. Charlie’s eyes were blue, a pretty blue. Not bright like mine but paler, practically gray. They were always wide and direct but even when I first met him, I had the strange feeling that I couldn’t see beyond them into his soul. And then later, he started talking about how he didn’t believe in the soul’s existence.
It’s occurring to me belatedly that it’s all relevant, all tied up in this terrible nightmare; but then we’re squeezing in behind Xander and speeding off on his BMW motorcycle past the formidable, towering lions that guard Trafalgar Square—how much money does this guy have? He’s only, like, nineteen—and I’m hating, hating, hating Charlie even more than ever, for the awful ways he’s lied to me and because he thought he had me pegged. He was so sure the guy he presented me—the “safe” one who played video games and read philosophy and hung out with fellow nerds—was someone I could love.
6
Charlie
You look at her and all you see are her huge blue angel eyes. But you already have an angel. Sometimes she’s blond, sometimes a redhead, always wild. Lena, you remind yourself. You have to remind yourself of her name a lot lately, like if you don’t say it aloud it’ll disappear into the U.K. or Boston—at boarding school or into her family’s palatial house—along with her face and body and the way she laughs. If you don’t say her name every now and then, she’ll cease to exist. She’ll become one of the stories you make up for the guys, a hot lay and a tongue ring and bang. Your stories always pack it, whether they’re real or not.
